


Shiver at Your Touch

by Mintly



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bickering is a Love Language, Established Relationship, Extreme Sappiness, Hand Jobs, Humor, Like off the charts tbh, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Temperature Play, They're just so in love, Winter Funtimes, heights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintly/pseuds/Mintly
Summary: It was a new millennium, and the London Eye had recently opened to the public. Aziraphale had been hinting for ages that Crowley might take him."Crowley, you must take us to the opening," Aziraphale said.Crowley and Aziraphale go on a date.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 113





	Shiver at Your Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Timelines are mysterious things. Don’t worry about this being pre-Apocalypse. They’re having fun and they're in love and that’s what counts, right? Right?
> 
> This is unbetaed, mostly because I got a lil embarrassed omg. Enjoy.

It was a new millennium, and the London Eye had recently opened to the public. Aziraphale had been hinting for ages that Crowley might take him. 

"Crowley, you must take us to the opening," Aziraphale said, pointing to an article in his newspaper one quiet evening in the back of the bookshop. "They say you're able to see the whole of central London on a clear day."

"A clear day? In London? You might as well ask me to align the stars for you, angel."

"Oh, only if it's not too much to ask."

"Why do you want to ride a glorified ferris wheel anyway? It's a tourist trap. It's not like you haven't seen the city from above before. You've got wings, in case you forgot." Crowley lifted to his elbows from his sprawl over the sofa.

"It's a—" Aziraphale glanced at his paper. "—cantilevered observation wheel, not a ferris wheel, my dear. And you know I haven't had the chance to spread my wings here in ages. There's too much risk of being caught, and it's quite a lot of effort besides. Oh please, Crowley?"

"Alright, alright. My treat. I'll see what I can do, but I'm not sharing one of those pods with any humans. Y’know, just us."

"That sounds lovely, my dear. One might say I'm eager to...give it a spin." Aziraphale wiggled in delight. 

Crowley groaned. "Hey, watch it with the poor wordplay. You'll offend the literature."

"I believe it's heard worse. I'd hate to offend your delicate sensibilities, however, although I have it on good authority you don't really mind." 

Aziraphale crossed the room and bent close to peck Crowley on the lips. Crowley titled his head back easily to accept the kiss.

"I might mind," he said, inches from Aziraphale's lips. His gaze was joyful, playful, all wrinkled crow's feet and liquid gold.

"You don't." 

Aziraphale kissed him again, lingering this time, warm and dripping with affection. Crowley melted entirely.

"Well, maybe not that much."

Crowley reached forward and swiftly pulled Aziraphale atop him on the sofa. There wasn't much talking after that.

* * *

The waiting list for tickets to London's newest attraction was unreasonably long, but Crowley had managed to book a pair anyway. The two of them bundled up against the midwinter chill to head down to the rather gigantic wheel looming on the south bank of the Thames. 

Aziraphale purchased a paper cone of hot, sugared nuts from a cart set up near the line that snaked a fair way down the river. Crowley stole a few for himself when he thought Aziraphale wasn't paying attention. He probably thought himself sneaky. Aziraphale smiled into the chilly February air, the cold stinging at his ears and pinking his cheeks.

The melted sugar left the paper damp and translucent. Aziraphale thanked his foresight in not wearing his sheepskin gloves that he had kept in impeccable condition since he had first purchased them nearly a century ago in 1906. Cleaning them would have been a nightmare.

However, the treat also left his fingers sticky, and Aziraphale sucked a sugar-coated finger into his mouth to lick away the sweet residue. He hummed appreciatively.

"You're indecent," Crowley mumbled from beneath the layers of his scarf, thickly wrapped to cover the entire lower half of his face. He was merely a scarf with a pair of sunglasses nestled on top at this point.

"Am I?" Aziraphale moved to lick the next finger.

Crowley grumbled, an annoyed sound, but slipped a long arm around Aziraphale's lower back, underneath his coat. The line moved forward.

As they reached the front, Crowley produced their tickets and handed them off. The doors slid shut behind them, and Aziraphale looked around. The capsule was empty of humans, as Crowley promised, and quite large with a central bench and huge, arched panelled windows on each side. 

The capsule was heated, and they both shed their outermost layers, though the cold air from their entry lingered inside the pod. Aziraphale unwound Crowley's comically long scarf. Each exposed inch of skin, each scattered freckle over the sharp curve of Crowley's cheekbones, was a joy. Aziraphale kissed the cherished, uneven line of Crowley's nose, the sharp cut of his cheekbones. And, as he revealed the last of his face, Aziraphale pressed another kiss to the curve of Crowley's grinning mouth, always one moment away from temptation or endearment.

"Up we go, angel," Crowley said, choosing the latter.

The motion of the wheel was continuous, and so they were already on their way, slowly rising. Aziraphale moved to the far end of the capsule that looked over the Thames and to London beyond. The buildings grew smaller as they rose, dark on the ground against the February clouds, grey and blanketing, that hovered moodily above the city.

Aziraphale could see Soho clearly as they ascended, and he wondered if he might spot his bookshop once at the top, or if it would be obscured by the crush of the city, the thousands of buildings that people called home and work and beloved little spots—a bakery here, a market there, perhaps a park bench in the distance, surrounded by gardens and, seasonally, ducks. 

The love of London's occupants burned in Aziraphale's periphery as a glow of hope and warmth. From this height, higher and higher, Aziraphale could see so much of his city, bright even in the cold of winter. And it was _his_ city, as much as it was anyone's. London, this bustling thing, was a place that Aziraphale found a home in, more so than anywhere else in his life, more than Rome and Eden and even Heaven, not that he would say so aloud.

It felt very human to have a home, Aziraphale thought. 

He thought of books with pages feathered from age and the touch of hands. Of sofa cushions, brocade worn with years and years of company. Of glasses left in sinks, the last drops of whisky twinkling in the low light, their drinkers having abandoned their cups to instead sip kisses from each other's lips. These things were home too.

Aziraphale pressed a hand to the cold glass, and it warmed under his touch.

"It's lovely," he said.

"Yeah."

Crowley faced the windows, but through the sides of his glasses, Aziraphale saw Crowley watching him. The love written there in the molten amber of his eyes was so plain, so obvious, so freely given, it was a wonder Aziraphale didn't burst into tears to see it. He never knew one could have this.

Aziraphale turned back to the view, pulse thundering wildly in his ears. He swallowed his emotion, his gratitude, to God and to Crowley and to the world, for allowing him this while the Earth still turned.

He looked down as the ground pulled further and further away. It really wasn’t much like flying, actually. While Aziraphale was not afraid of heights, there was something to be said for the feeling of looking down from so far above. The swooping feeling that tasted a bit like fear, but like excitement too. The thrill of being high in the air and so aware of his footing. In a moment, seeing the Earth so far below and falling further away, adrenaline rushed through his veins and made him gasp.

On second thought, it might have been because of the clever, long-fingered hand making its way under the hem of his waistcoat to untuck his shirt.

"Crowley," Aziraphale admonished. He tilted his chin to the side and a chilled nose nuzzled immediately into the crook of his neck.

"Oh, please. You knew," Crowley said against his skin. His hot breath spilled over Aziraphale’s throat. Crowley had moved behind Aziraphale, out of his line for sight. It was just his voice and the sensation of his curious touch. 

"Making me watch you lick your fingers clean. I thought I was going to expire before the doors even shut," the voice rumbled.

"I'm glad to see you made it," Aziraphale said, sucking in a breath as Crowley bit the sensitive spot under his jaw.

"Anyway." Crowley moved to speak directly into Aziraphale's ear. "I thought we might enjoy the view together."

His words were heated. His breath was heated. The gravel of Crowley’s voice rattled inside Aziraphale's skull as the steamy fog of arousal rolled in to cloud his judgement. Cool fingers spread along his lower stomach. The pads of those wandering fingers caught on the trail of hair there. The touch lingered, tingling and warm. It was difficult to think.

"Someone might see," Aziraphale said, torn by his sense of propriety and his, ah, swelling desire. The city was entirely before them, glittering and alive and watching.

"They won't. Not if you don't want them to."

Frost crawled across the windows, geometric tendrils of ice crackling and weaving around them. Aziraphale could just barely make out the shape of the neighboring capsules through the distortion.

"That's thoughtful of you."

"I'm trying to get into your trousers in a public space and you call me _thoughtful_. Ugh. Way to kill the mood." 

But still Crowley slipped his hand lower and fiddled with the button of Aziraphale's trousers. Popped it open with a dexterous twist.

"I only mean to express my gratitude. _Oh_." Aziraphale's breath hitched as Crowley's rapidly warming fingers reached further and cupped him through his pants.

"We can see to that later."

Crowley pressed himself forward until they were flush, chest to hip. He knocked Aziraphale's legs further apart with a soft nudge of his snakeskin boots. Gentle even in his firmness. 

Aziraphale felt the line of Crowley's arousal along the curve of his arse, clearly straining against the fabric of Crowley's already snug trousers. His head spun.

The push of Crowley's body had the secondary effect of nudging Aziraphale against the windows. The chill of ice seeped through the thin layer to prickle at his fingers where his hands braced against the glass and to seep insidiously into the fibres of his shirt and to his skin beneath. Aziraphale shivered.

At his back, Crowley was hellishly hot. The whipcord thin arch of him radiated heat that seemed to pull forward into Aziraphale and pool between his legs.

"Happily," Aziraphale choked out. He shifted his hips back toward Crowley, eager and swept up in his want.

Wrapping his free arm around Aziraphale's waist, Crowley balanced him, trapped him, between the hot, insistent press of his body and the icy panes of glass. Aziraphale was caught between the two extremes.

Crowley and his clever fingers freed Aziraphale’s growing erection. His trousers and pants were pushed to bunch on his thighs, obscenely spread wide to make room for Crowley behind him. Aziraphale's pleasure was bare to all of London, only a thin layer of frost to protect his modesty. 

Aziraphale’s breathing came faster, now, as Crowley pulled and shifted and ran his thumb over him, taking him apart bit by bit and rebuilding him, grounding him with the arm around his waist, the scratch of his slightly stubbled cheek against his neck, the heated encouragements whispered into his skin.

Crowley rutted his thin hips ever so slightly against Aziraphale from behind, unthinking and helpless, distracted from his own pleasure in his chase of Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale shifted forward on each push, swaying just close enough to feel the cold air radiating from the glass. The chill kissed his skin to leave gooseflesh in its wake.

Aziraphale leant his forehead against the frosted glass, his overheated skin tingling, soothing and burning all at once. His hot breath, coming increasingly fast with the pump of Crowley's fist on his cock, poured over the glass as fog.

This close, the view below was clear to him, even through the ice and the sensations rolling over him in sparkling jolts. They were over halfway the crest of the Eye now, so high no one could see them, not really, if they chanced a glance skyward.

Aziraphale was used to seeing the world on high occasionally—the view from Heaven was as pure a view as could be desired, after all, but that was different. This is different. Here, in beautiful, bustling London, on a machine built on thousands of years of human ingenuity and in the arms of the one being who truly, unselfishly loved him, the world felt infinite. Aziraphale felt significant, in a way he never could anywhere else, with anyone else.

Aziraphale was soaring. Weightless, breathless in flight, hurtling toward a precipice well-known to him by now. His sweating palms slipped on the glass and he grappled at the window frame for purchase. His fingerprints smeared over the whole of London, marking all the places he’d touched in the hundreds of years he’d been its resident angel.

Crowley exhaled raggedly against Aziraphale’s ear. His breath was hot and wet, and Aziraphale shivered. He felt the echo of that heat reverberate through his entire body. Crowley clutched at him, his teasing touches becoming more purposeful and slicker with Aziraphale’s own precome. The sound was obscene and beautiful, in that careful balance struck by all true earthly pleasures. Aziraphale moaned against the glass, cold and hot and not feeling any of it, not anymore. Just the rising, building pleasure, tearing through him as he flew higher and higher.

Crowley had him by the waist, his darling, bony hand digging into the velvet of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and holding him tight. In the safety of his embrace, Aziraphale knew he would not fall. _Could_ not fall. Crowley grounded him, raised him higher, proved to him that love could be given, and given, and given, and—

"Kiss me," Aziraphale said, gasping. A tidal wave of emotion surged through him. He couldn’t come yet, not until he could give this love in return. "Kiss me, oh please. Right _now_ , please please _please—_ "

A pause, followed by a breathless huff of laughter. The view of London, far below, spun away, and Aziraphale’s shoulders pressed back into the windows. Crowley was before him, lust dark in his eyes and heavy in his breath. This new view was just as beautiful as the previous, if not more so, by Aziraphale’s estimation.

"So demanding." Crowley ducked and littered Aziraphale’s face with kisses. His temples, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. 

"Hello, my darling," Aziraphale said, dizzy with love and his near orgasm.

Crowley made a garbled sort of sound and surged forward, kissing Aziraphale so hard he was shoved backward. The force banged Aziraphale’s head against the window lattice. Their noses knocked. Crowley’s glasses tipped askew and poked into Aziraphale’s cheek.

"Oh!"

"Shit.Sorry, sorry," Crowley muttered against his lips.

The hand at Aziraphale’s waist slithered up to cradle the back of his skull, massaging the apology into his skin. Aziraphale tore Crowley’s sunglasses off, threw them somewhere behind them. He began working his way down Crowley’s shirt, unbuttoning as he descended. Aziraphale was painfully hard, his cock curved and leaking against his stomach, caught between the rucked up mess of their shirts. Crowley looked no better.

"Feeling, ah, enthusiastic?" Aziraphale said between one bruising kiss and the next.

"Just shut up, angel, won’t you?"

Crowley’s voice was so saturated with fondness it was downright syrupy, all the bite in his words taken and smothered in sweetness. He even tasted a little of the sugar from the nuts they shared, masking his typical hint of Hellish smoke tempered by common spit. An odd combination, but not unwelcome. Aziraphale bit Crowley’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. Crowley groaned brokenly.

"Then may I—"

"Nnngh. G—Satan— _fuck_. Yes, yes anything. I wish you would."

Aziraphale reached between their bodies and Crowley helpfully nudged his hips backward, welcoming his touch. His hand attempted to unbutton Crowley’s trousers, but the angle was difficult, and his arousal clumsy fingers slipped. Cheating a little, Aziraphale miracled the placket to lay open for him and eased the zipper down. Crowley gasped at the sudden freedom.

"Cheater," Crowley said, kissing Aziraphale hard as he attempted to work his trousers down, with little success. "I can’t miracle your clothes in case they get damaged, but you can miracle mine? I call that a double standard."

"I wouldn’t have to resort to using a miracle if you would stop wearing such tight trousers, my dear. Not that they don’t flatter you, mind." 

"Cost six hundred pounds to look that good," Crowley muttered. His tongue had gone a little snakey against Aziraphale’s. "Or it would if I’d bought them. They’re designer."

Aziraphale pulled away slightly and was momentarily distracted by tracing a finger over the well-kissed red of Crowley's mouth. He remembered his counterpoint. 

"Wait. If you miracled the trousers in the first place, isn't your argument a moot point anyway?"

"It's the principal of the thing, angel. Also, didn't say I miracled them. Could've stolen them."

"Did you?" 

Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed, quite dramatically. Aziraphale tutted, though he was admittedly charmed. His demon was ridiculous, but Aziraphale liked him that way. He loved him for it, in fact.

"No. Now get back here," Crowley demanded. It was not the least bit intimidating—not with all the amusement dancing his eyes and the happiness written so plainly in the high flush of his cheeks, from cold and sex and the simple joy of love.

Giving up on pushing the tight denim past Crowley’s hips but assured the zipper wouldn’t catch anything it shouldn’t, Aziraphale tugged Crowley closer. Their chest met, and their cocks nudged together. Aziraphale’s hips stuttered. He reached again, taking both of them in hand. He miracled something slick into his palms, cool wetness that warmed quickly in the immense heat caught in the space between them.

"Fuck," Crowley said, putting his hands to the task of pulling Aziraphale’s hair into absolute disarray.

Aziraphale was surrounded by Crowley’s loving touch, his desirous breath. The delicious heat of arousal shocked through him with such strength the cold glass at his back was almost a relief. Sharp and brilliant and elevating. The contrast was everything. 

Blazing, searing love washed over him like a wave, like a spill of sunlight, like a warm front rolling in to melt the late spring frost. It flooded Aziraphale with awe. Crowley’s love was vast and unending. That a demon could be so capable of such world-shatteringly powerful love, and for him, of all creatures, would never cease to overwhelm him. He once thought it impossible a demon could love at all. Now he knew better, intimately, gratefully so.

Deep into the freeze of winter, when returning from lunch to the bookshop, Aziraphale had noticed the cold doorknob could burn in the same way a hot fire might. Too hot or too cold, it hardly mattered—the feeling was indistinguishable at the touch of his hand.

If Crowley, his fiery, passionate Crowley, was the heat and Aziraphale, slow and persistent as a chill, was the cold, then perhaps they weren’t so different after all.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s attention with a needy moan directly against Aziraphale’s lips. They were hardly kissing, their mouths panting and wet and open to each other, giving and taking in kind with the slide of their tongues. Aziraphale’s face was hot. Scorching. As if he were standing too close to a fire, mesmerised by its seductive light and wanting even closer despite the bite of its flame. Despite the danger. He wanted that heat. He wanted _Crowley_. 

Crowley was trembling apart, and so was Aziraphale. Aziraphale slid over both their dripping cocks, faster, helpless against his rising need, slick and hot in the circle of his palm. With a hitched gasp, Aziraphale shivered and tumbled over the edge. He fought to watch Crowley through the bright, electric heat licking through his veins. 

Crowley pressed his sweat damp forehead to Aziraphale’s as he came. The curtain of his red hair, grown now almost to his shoulders, slipped forward, surrounding and hiding the pair of them from the rest of the world, from Heaven above and Hell below and frosted London unfolding into the horizon behind them.

Crowley was gorgeous like this, pleasure-flushed and bitten-lipped. His eyelashes fluttered, delicate against his freckled cheeks. So vulnerable, so open in giving himself over to Aziraphale. This guarded creature let down his barriers and left himself raw and beautiful in Aziraphale's hands. The tender heart of him exposed and trusting. What a gift Aziraphale was given.

Aziraphale gentled his touch as they both came down from the high, kissing what little breath they could catch from each other’s lips. Crowley sagged against Aziraphale with a hum, completely boneless in his satisfaction. Aziraphale held him close, easily supporting his weight. He pressed his cheek into Crowley’s hair and felt warmed by all the love around him.

"Would you mind, darling?"

"Hmmmm?" Crowley nestled closer into Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale felt the flick of a snakish tongue, scenting him. It was unbearably cute.

"You did start this, and I won’t see these trousers stained permanently." 

He might be in love, but he did have standards.

Crowley grunted in acknowledgement and snapped. His fingers slipped right past each other, too weak still post-orgasm. Bravely, Crowley tried again and succeeded in miracling away any undesirable mess. Aziraphale, pleased, pressed a kiss to Crowley’s temple, just at his hairline.

Aziraphale chuckled. "Thank you. It might be a lot easier to clean up if you didn’t swoon all over the place. You might consider a horizontal surface next time, my dear."

"Demons don’t _swoon_." Crowley sounded horrified at the implication, even muffled into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

"I’m sure," Aziraphale said, with impossible fondness and only the barest minimum of sarcasm. Crowley playfully nipped at his neck in retaliation before dropping a kiss over it.

They were descending now, just past the top. The buildings along the Thames rose slowly to meet them, the rooftops and steeples straining into the clouded sky. There was no rush, however. The continuous turn of the Eye was slow. Aziraphale was thankful. They had plenty of time to simply be in each other’s arms for a few minutes more.

Finally Crowley raised his head and met Aziraphale’s eyes, biting his lip.

"So, there’ll be a next time, you say?" he said wickedly. "Which iconic London tourist destination would you like to defile with me next, angel?"

For thousands of years, they hadn’t been able to have this. There was too much fear, too much pain, and too much stubbornness on both their parts. But he couldn’t regret it, not really. Not if it led them here. 

Aziraphale caressed Crowley’s cheek with a gentle thumb. Crowley’s skin was soft and warm. Aziraphale would treasure every opportunity to touch and love Crowley now, from here until the end of all things.

"Next time," Aziraphale agreed.

He ran his hands over the crumpled fabric of Crowley’s shirt and admired the stretch of skin revealed in the unbuttoned length of him. He watched the rise and fall of Crowley’s chest as it filled with his slowing breath. And beneath his splayed hands, Aziraphale felt Crowley’s unnecessary heartbeat thudding along. It was all so incongruously human. Or perhaps it wasn’t incongruous at all. Aziraphale was learning this.

Aziraphale began to do up Crowley’s buttons for him, just in case he caught a chill.

"Next time," Aziraphale said, looking up at his lover through the pale of his eyelashes. Crowley grinned unabashedly. "I think I’ll let you pick."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 21st birthday to the London Eye, I guess omg.
> 
> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](https://mintly.tumblr.com/) if you like! Thank you for reading!


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